


Guardian Angel

by Barb G (troutkitty)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M, Zine: Wounded Heroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-08-15
Updated: 2000-08-15
Packaged: 2017-10-24 15:19:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troutkitty/pseuds/Barb%20G
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caught between a rock and a hard place -- this is a position Walter Skinner has found himself in all too frequently because of Mulder and the X-Files. When their powerful enemies have yet another twisted scheme in mind, Skinner won't play, leading to a nightmare beyond his imagination. Abandoned and in the midst of hell, Skinner discovers that fallen angels can sometimes be more than minions of the devil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guardian Angel

**Author's Note:**

> This first appeared in Rac's beautifully done Wounded Heroes Zine. It was illustrated beautifully by Killa, and it was amazingly betaed by Valentin, Melissa, Ruth, Devo and I'm sure I'm missing someong here but it's been over a year now. Thanks everyone.

He came to me last night. I had forgotten to take back my key. Or, maybe I hadn't, and he used a copy he had made.

I hadn't expected him. I never expected him again. Not after the words we had said. His was the first break-up where falling out of love hadn't been the problem.

I love him. But, I can't be with him. For the first time, I had put him in danger, and I wasn't going to be a party to that. I rolled onto my side and stared out the window. "What do you want, Agent Mulder?" I asked. I kept my voice cold. I don't think he noticed.

"I can't, sir," Mulder said. He knew I hated him calling me 'sir' in the bedroom. The pain in his voice stabbed me.

I ignored the hurt; I ignored him. The words were easier to deliver if I wasn't looking at him. "Can't what, Agent Mulder? Accept it. I don't want you any more. You are dismissed."

Silence. Dead silence. I could hear the clock ticking in the living room, and it was unnatural that I could hear it with my ears ringing. I wanted him gone; I didn't want to see how much I had hurt him. A man like Mulder, with so much damage and so many misunderstood needs, had come to me. I accepted him and then turned him out. I should have known he wouldn't let it go.

He lifted the blanket, and the cold air touched my shoulder blades, my spine, and the small of my back. The changing air currents brought the different temperatures against my skin, and I catalogued each one of them rather than have to face Mulder again. Mulder entered my bed fully clothed, and the smell of whiskey came to me. Probably not enough to make him drunk, but enough to build up his courage. The soles of his shoes were harsh against the back of my calves, and his suit scratched me. I got out of bed and threw on my robe.

Mulder sat up, lips parted. He looked like he had our first night together. He had been lost and alone that night, too, with shadows under his eyes that had been more than just moonlight tricks. He hadn't cut his hair in a while, and it was starting to lie down naturally, rather than spiking up. His hazel eyes shone wide and dry in the moonlight. He was still in shock over my cruelty. "What part of 'get out of my life' are you having problems understanding, Agent Mulder?" I asked.

The title made him wince slightly. His eyes dropped, and his lips touched. They looked dry to me. I loved the way they moved against my skin, adding just enough roughness to the silk that I lost even more control.

"The part just before I get up and leave and then the actual carry-through," Mulder said. He looked up again, and his anger showed through for the first time. "You don't want me gone."

"Wrong. I just don't want you."

"Gone," Mulder repeated. He stood up, coming to me, and I backed away against the window. The blinds cut vertical stripes across Mulder's features and clothing, reminding me sharply of an old film noir. This was ridiculous. If I truly wanted him out, I could have pushed him out and shut the door. I didn't.

Nor did I stop his hands from moving to my chest. His fingers were cold as they pressed over my heart. "Please, sir. Just tonight. Give me tonight. I'll leave after we're done," he said.

He was so close to me, I could smell the sweat and the smoke permeating his hair and clothes. He had gone to a bar, then. I imagined him cold and lonely, sitting in a crowded bar somewhere nearby, alone in a sea of people. As if against my will, I reached up with my hand and touched his face, stroking down the slight stubble of his cheek.

Mulder looked up as I responded to him and then pushed me back against the

wall. He knew how much his challenges pushed my buttons. I pushed back, grabbing onto his arms, and Mulder 'let' himself be pushed back onto the bed.

"And then what?" I demanded once he was sitting on the spot I had just vacated. He was trying to hide how excited he was, but I could see his nostrils flaring and the dilation of his pupils in the bright moonlight.

He opened his mouth and raked the inside of his lip against his teeth for a second, trying to come up with the right words. The best he found were, "And then what, what?"

"Tonight. And then you leave. Mulder-" I began. No Agent, this time. I saw his eyes dart to me in hope, but I dashed it quickly. "And then you leave, Agent Mulder. Am I understood?"

Mulder started to shake his head, but I kept myself stern. The eyes widened even more, and he nodded once. "Understood," he said and then just to be spiteful, he added, "sir."

We each had our weapons; we each used them. I stripped off his suit with disregard and left it crumpled on the floor. Let Mulder walk back to his car in wrinkled clothing to remember our last night together. At that point, Mulder didn't care. His erection against his belly looked painfully swollen; as I ran my fingers over the thick vein I felt his entire body twinge. He lay back, leaving me to do all the work.

I loved playing with his body. It was so open to me. Every touch had its own unique response, and it had taken me months to map them all out. I ran a finger over the line of his chest, and he gasped. I raked my nails down his back, and he sobbed. I scratched him, and he moaned. I bit him, and he shuddered.

I had never had a lover, male or female, who gave himself so completely to his surrender. He was so beautiful, even if he did hate opening his eyes during our discovery of each other. He only knew me by touch, not sight. Mulder loved his darkness.

Yet, he trusted me still. He never would have let me part his legs if he hadn't, but I stopped myself. I didn't want him like that. For the first time, I didn't want to see him. I moved my hands up his thighs, squeezing his ass hard enough to leave green and blue fingerprints against his pale white skin for at least week. He didn't complain about the pain. I wouldn't have cared if he did. He was mine to mark and possess, even if it was only for one more night.

Then what? The thought made me cold. I sat back, kneeling between his spread thighs as pre-cum leaked from him. I gathered a drop of it absently and brought it to my lips. Tomorrow, I would send him to the slaughter.

He looked like an offering, spread out on my bed like that, his throat fully exposed as he tried to rub the top of his head against my pillows. His arms and legs stretched wide apart, giving me every inch of him that I wanted. I pulled back, unable to stop myself, unable to accept the sacrifice.

Mulder opened his eyes, his confusion so clear that it stabbed me again. I ignored it and got control of myself again. "Get on your stomach," I ordered.

Mulder looked up at me, nodding his head before turning over. It took some effort for him to maneuver around where I was kneeling, but I didn't help him. I loved his slow obedience. He had never jumped to obey, but he had never disobeyed me, either. Not in here, at least.

He kept his legs wide apart and even drew one knee up so that his body was more open for me. He lifted his hips about half an inch off the bed, but that was all the help he gave me. The rest was my responsibility. He began to move his hips when I ignored him for more than a minute, but I slapped him lightly on the rump. He groaned, but stopped moving. I had rules about self-stimulation, and Mulder thrived under my control.

I reached for the bedside table. Mulder tensed as he heard the foil package rip, but I was no longer interested in making it better for him. He wanted me to fuck him. He asked for nothing more, and I wasn't willing to give him any more. No special favours. I used the K-Y, not the oil. I didn't prepare him.

Which made him twice as tight. Thank God for the condom; it cut down on the sensation enough to keep me from losing it like a teenage boy on prom night. Mulder was hot. Every shudder the man gave, I felt against me. I bit down on his shoulder, but had to stop myself as he jerked.

I considered not fighting this urge I had to use Mulder, to fuck him mindlessly until I came and then kick him out of my bed, but I couldn't do it. That much cruelty would kill him. I kissed the spot I had just bitten. Mulder grunted as he turned his head and buried it in the pillow. I had never asked him what he whispered to himself while I fucked him. Suddenly, I needed to know, but I didn't think I had the right to that information any longer. Mulder was an enigma, and I didn't deserve to be the one who decoded him.

Mulder's cock twitched as I cupped his testicles. He cried out as he thrust himself back and pressed against my body. His weight hit me, and I grunted as I slammed him back down to the mattress with only a snap of my hips. He climbed back up to meet my thrusts, but not as violently.

I pressed my head against his shoulder and gave myself over to the rush in my groin. There was no point in prolonging this; neither one of us was truly enjoying it. I left his testicles alone and gripped his cock. He shivered all over, unable to control his groan. His cock pulsed in my hand, and through the barrier of the rubber, I felt his entire body rock to the

pain of his orgasm. I kissed the back of his neck and resisted the urge to bite down and cause him more pain. His thrashing brought me off, and as I emptied myself, I wished I could have given him more.

I would have stayed over him long after the rush had passed, just to let him feel my chest press against his back, but I could no longer stay that close to him. I pulled away, and the condom almost slipped off. I knotted it and threw it out before going into the bathroom. Mulder didn't stop his shuddering, and I didn't stop to check if he hurt. He always reacted like that to our sex. It was as if he hated his body's responses.

When I came out of the shower, Mulder had on his slacks and shirt, both of which were wrinkled. His jacket lay over his knees, and he wouldn't look at me. "I'd be really pathetic and beg if it would help," he said to his jacket.

"It won't," I answered, going to the window. The smell of us came from the bed, and I suddenly wanted him up so I could wash the sheets. I couldn't sleep in a bed that reeked of his desperation.

"Sir..." he began.

"Good night, Agent Mulder," I said.

Mulder looked at me. I stared back at him. Finally, he nodded and stood. He held out his hand, and for a moment, I just stared at it. Instead of taking my hand, Mulder pressed a key into my palm. "Thank you," he said. "I...needed that."

I let him go, but I knew I couldn't give him up to them. He could never be mine again, but he would never be theirs, either. He made it to the doorway before I called him back.

He turned, but there was no more hope in his look. "Yes, sir?"

"Tomorrow, take the afternoon off."

"What?" Mulder asked. His mouth twitched.

I looked at him. "Disappear tomorrow afternoon. Leave your phone with Scully, get out of your apartment, stay away from your car, just don't be there."

He looked at me, cocking his head. "Don't be where?"

"Anywhere."

He looked away first. "Yes, sir," he said and turned back to the door.

I locked it after he left. Suddenly I was exhausted. I fumbled with the water taps in the shower and washed Mulder off my skin, wishing I could get beneath it, too. When the last of the soap ran off me and down the drain, I snapped the hot water tap shut and braced myself as the ice water took a heartbeat to reach me. I stayed in there until goose bumps were the only thing I felt as I ran a hand over my belly.

I no longer knew who the real masochist was.

I saw Mulder only once the next day. He was with Scully, speaking to her in that low tone he used with her alone, but silenced himself as I came around the corner. I don't even think he saw me right away. He looked up, paled, and looked down again quickly. Scully noticed the change and looked at me questioningly, but I ignored both of them. I kept my head up and looked straight ahead, pretending I didn't see Scully's half-turn as I walked past them and into my office.

Meetings took up most of my afternoon. When they finished, I nodded to my secretary and closed the door to my office. I hung up my jacket and disregarded the pile of work to stare at the dim wall across from me.

I don't know how long I sat there and didn't want to look at my watch to be certain. The furnace wouldn't kick on even after the sun went down, and the chill helped numb me. Eventually, the door opened, and the light was flicked on.

"Where is he?" Kersh demanded from the doorway.

It didn't surprise me to see him. "I don't know," I said, clearing my throat. It took all the control I had not to blink under the sudden lights.

"You were told not to involve yourself," a voice said from behind Kersh. Kersh looked at the two of us, nodded his head, and left. "Perhaps you should come with me," the smoker said.

"I don't think so." I spread my hands out on the desk. "If you want to talk, talk here."

The smoker smiled and moved out of the way as two of his flunkies joined us in the room. They were big enough to loom over my desk. "I don't see you having much choice in the location of this discussion, Assistant Director."

The nerve of the man made me angry. "Are you insane? I raise my voice and a dozen agents will be here," I said. Maybe that was a slight exaggeration, but the threat was valid enough.

"Do so, and we will be forced to wait in Mulder's apartment. Eventually he'd return there, don't you think? Of course, if we did that, you would no longer be of use to us, and that wouldn't be very good for you, either," the cigarette smoker said. The two men moved at the same time in an obviously well-practiced move. Both of them opened their jackets and showed me the butts of their twin guns. I don't think the smoker could have gotten any clearer.

Looking at the smoker, I saw something that could have almost been regret. "You were useful to us once, Assistant Director Skinner," he said.

On my desk, I had an expense report that was due tomorrow, three different cases that I needed to sign off, and my travel-log book that needed to be updated. I left it all where it sat in half-organized bundles to grab my jacket. I still had to protect Mulder.

The smoker sat next to me in the back of the dark blue sedan while his two men sat in front. The man I sat behind had white flakes of dandruff on his dark suit. I fixated on that while the smoker and I continued the pretence that nothing was wrong.

The smoker only glanced at his watch twice, but it so deliberate it made me very aware of the passage of time. The clock on the radio said it was nine twenty; my watch said that was two minutes slow.

The house they took me to was dark as the car pulled up. I went to open my door, but the smoker reached and pulled me back. "Wait for the driver," the man said.

It was his first admission that I wasn't there by my own free will. "I don't know what this is about, but I-" I began.

The smoker glanced at me, and the words died. We both knew what this was about. The door opened, and I stepped out of the car. The goon's hand came down heavily on my shoulder, but we all waited while the other man lit another cigarette, before he motioned us inside.

The hand pressed down on me and propelled me up the walk to the front of the house. The second man unlocked the door, and I was pushed in.

The house was dark and cold and stale inside. It was ghost silent, too, no hum of a furnace, no refrigerator, no ticking clocks. Nothing. The furniture all had white covers protecting it, and all the appliances in the kitchen had their cords in factory bundles beside them. It was eerie. The smoker stood behind me as the first goon disappeared for a moment down the hall, and in a moment the lights came on. A short time later the furnace gasped to life, and the first stirrings of new air touched my scalp. Even with the yellow, warm glow and the comforting sounds, the house still felt like a tomb. Mine.

"Right this way," the smoker said. He was still playing gracious host; I was still playing invited guest. All that changed when the door to the first bedroom opened.

To begin with, it wasn't a regular door. It was reinforced steel with two deadbolts and hinges welded on. The floor was concrete with a storm drain at the base of a slightly sloped basin. The chair itself was metal and secured to the floor with bolts the diameter of beer cans. The restraints on the arms and legs of the chair were leather and had Velcro releases. The sheepskin padding looked too white to be a part of the room. Against the far wall lay a green garden hose attached to a shining silver tap, next to a brush that could be attached to the hose. I had only seen them in car washes. There were drops of water under the tap, but other than that, the room sparkled with cleanliness.

"How minimalist. Who does your decorating, the Marquis?"

The smoker only laughed, a harsh, coughing sound. "The rest of the house is much more comfortable. Promise me your co-operation, and we can retire to another room right now."

I looked back to the room. There was nothing on any of the other walls, just more cement that still showed streaks where it had been smoothed over. No windows. The single, naked 100-watt bulb chased away all the shadows except for the dark square directly under the chair. I took a deep breath and shook my head. "I can't do that," I said.

The smoker nodded. "I didn't think you could. Take off your jacket and shirt and sit down."

I didn't move. All pretence had ended when the door to the room swung open. I was not going to cooperate any further. I didn't turn around as the second thug came into the room, but the moment one of them tried to touch me, I lashed out.

The smoker moved back as they tackled me. Two of my knuckles burned when I connected with a cheekbone. The other guy's fist caught me in the mouth, and my lip split, sending blood pouring down my chin. I kicked, catching one of them in the balls, and he went down as the second one managed to grab onto my jacket. He yanked it down off my shoulders, and for a moment, I was trapped. The stitching of the coat was too well done to rip as I struggled. I slammed my head back, but didn't connect with anything. I only succeeded in wrenching my neck.

The man on the floor pushed himself up, holding his crotch with one hand while the other fist wrapped around my necktie and pulled it tight.

I continued struggling for as long as I could, but the pressure against my carotid artery made my eyes ache and my tongue thick. I exhaled slowly, and the blood continued to drip off my lip to the breast of my shirt. I relaxed my arms in the jacket sleeves, and the first thug stripped it off me.

"Very wise, Mr. Skinner. You cannot escape this," the smoker said. They tried to tear my shirt off, but the collar under the tie caught it. Instead of loosening the noose around my neck, the first man pulled harder, and I suddenly felt myself falling, unable to lock my knees. I remember trying to lift my hand to claw at the tie, but I was gone before my muscles had a chance to obey me.

I was trapped in a bad dream. I was cold, asleep with my belt and shoes on, and my nose itched. My arm wouldn't lift off the chair. That annoyance woke me up. I coughed before opening my eyes.

The smoker offered me a mug of water. I spit at him. It would have been more dramatic if my mouth hadn't been so dry.

The smoker shrugged and drank half of it before pouring the rest of it over my head. Water droplets fell onto my glasses and blurred my vision. The water was cold, and the room only made it worse. I touched my tongue to the thick knot of pain lodged in my bottom lip and sat back.

"At 12:01 this morning, Jacques Robinson will be executed for killing seven young men aged 16 to 24. Before he was to be executed, he was to have spent an hour talking to Agent Mulder about his motives and orders. We worked for more than seven months to ensure that, Mr. Skinner. You had orders not to interfere, and yet you sent our little Fox away."

"You shouldn't leave important details to the last minute, you sick fuck. Shit happens," I said.

"You don't understand, Mr. Skinner. Mulder was supposed to believe everything Robinson told him. He was supposed to follow through on the names given to him. He was supposed to implicate everyone from the prison warden to the Governor in what would have proven to be unfounded accusations. He was supposed to be in our pockets after that."

"So? Your plans have gone awry before. Mulder's slipped out of other traps. What makes this one so important?" I demanded.

The smoker stepped up to me, took off my glasses, and stored them in his own breast pocket. "Because I am tired of him dancing away from me. I am tired of watching him stealing the cheese from the trap. He would have fallen if it hadn't been for you, and I am not going to permit you the opportunity to warn him again," he said. One of the thugs walked over to me.

I had been expecting another face blow, so when he hit the center of my diaphragm I had been exhaling. The last ounce of air was forced from my lungs, and they wouldn't open again. I tried to gasp, and only the fact of my arms lashed down to the chair kept me from falling over. I heard a squeak and didn't know if it came from the chair or my throat. I was dying.

Eventually I could breathe, and I threw myself back in the chair as I gasped for breath. "Do not let your mouth run away with you again," the smoker said.

"What do you want from me?" I asked, trying to keep my voice harsh with no breath behind it.

"What do you think, Walter?" the smoker asked, and then ran a hand across my shoulders. His nails raked against my skin. "Tell me. Did they teach your particular style of subordinate control at the Academy, or was that an extra-curricular lesson?"

I stared at him blankly. "What?"

"Come now, Walter. Surely you didn't think we wouldn't find out. I would have thought you'd have the wisdom to separate your personal life from your job, but you have proven yourself unable to do so. So, enjoy him. Fuck him all you want; we won't object. But when we yank on your leash, I want your hand to tighten as well."

"What makes you think I'll obey?" I asked, staring straight ahead.

The smoker tried to lift my chin, but I locked my jaw in place, and he couldn't move it. "Always so stubborn, Walter. This will be so much easier on you if you just cooperate. But of course, you can't do that, can you? We're not asking for much, just...allow us to guide you as we have in the past."

"That is not going to happen," I said.

"He's not going to trust us anymore. He trusts you."

"He's not going to do anything against his better judgement just because I tell him to," I snarled.

"You let us worry about that, Walter. At the moment, the only person you should be worrying about is yourself."

I looked up at him. It had been a mistake to involve myself with Mulder. I knew that now-hell, I'd known it then-but it was far too late. "Mulder is never going to be yours," I told him with more confidence than I was feeling.

He looked down at me, and I felt his theatrical pity. I became aware of my shivering, and the smoker smiled again. "I thought you liked cold showers, Walter," he said.

I fought the straps holding me down. I could hear the Velcro starting to tear, but the smoker backhanded me hard enough to daze me. I slumped back and shook my head to clear the ringing. I knew Mulder was paranoid. In the beginning, I had found it just another annoying piece of the baggage Mulder carried around with him. I never knew how much of that paranoia was actually based on people trying to get him. I'd be paranoid, too.

The smoker turned off the lights and left the room.

The door shut, and the key turned in the darkness.

I woke to the snap of the light switch. I hadn't heard the door open. I touched my lip with my tongue and winced.

"Have you thought about cooperating, Walter?"

"Go to hell," I croaked and coughed. I glanced down at my wrist; my watch was under the restraints. My body felt like hours had passed. "If you think beating me is going to make me betray Mulder, you are sadly mistaken."

"We're finished beating you, Walter. That was just a preliminary stage. This is the real thing," the smoker said.

Alex Krycek stepped into the room. He wore all black, and he had black leather gloves to cover the plastic hand. He looked tired and cross, and for once, his hair wasn't exactly in place. The green eyes were heavily shadowed and knew far too much to live in a face that young. "It's four o'clock in the morning," Krycek began irritably, and then saw me.

He froze, and the smoker turned to him. "Alex," he said, warningly.

"You never said this was tonight," Krycek said, staring at me.

"What difference would that make? I thought you would be pleased," the smoker said, placing a hand on Krycek's false arm. Krycek jerked away from the touch and came to me.

"Who had him first?" he asked, lifting my chin.

I would have bitten him, but Krycek moved away without waiting for the answer. "Amateurs," he sneered. He left the room, pushing past the smoker.

"You should be asking yourself if Mulder is worth it, Walter. Alex can be very persuasive when he wants to be," the smoker said.

I didn't look at him. The smoker moved up next to me and ran his hand down my left arm before dragging his nails across my biceps. "You owe Alex something, Walter. You owe him something that can never be replaced. Are you sure you want to risk his wrath?"

"Go to hell," I repeated. There was not much else to say. My bladder was starting to feel uncomfortable, and my ass was sore from sitting on the cold metal chair all night. I was cold, thirsty, and my face ached where the punches had landed. I took a deep breath and knew that this was going to be the best I was going to feel in a long time.

Krycek returned with a little black bag. He put it down beside the chair and lifted my head again. He touched my lip delicately with his thumb, and then drew back and punched me in the gut. I bent forward as much as I could and fought the need to vomit over myself. Krycek grabbed my head and forced me back again.

I fought, twisting to keep from exposing myself any more than I had to, but Krycek's single hand was a claw against my throat. He dug his fingers behind my trachea as if he was about to tear my throat out, and then he kissed my cheek. "Hurts, doesn't it?" he whispered in my ear.

He let me go and pulled off his glove with his teeth before pressing his palm against my chest. His hand was warm and dry, and only with it against my skin did I notice how cold I was. "Are you thinking warm thoughts, Skinner?"

"How long have you been wanting to say that, Krycek?" I growled. I wanted this game to end, even if it meant seeing what Krycek had in his doctor's bag. It would just be pain, not this...whatever this was. I didn't feel a moment of regret over what had happened to him in the past, but Krycek was so beautiful, the imperfection seemed cruel.

The smoker moved behind Krycek and pulled off the leather jacket. Krycek glanced behind him, annoyed, but let the smoker take it. The old man pressed himself against Krycek's exposed back, and his white hands were stark against Krycek's groin. Krycek pulled away and glared, and the smoker moved back to the wall. It was obviously a display for me, just so that there would be no doubt who owned whom, but I wondered if the smoker knew how much Krycek resented him.

Krycek dropped down to one knee and opened his bag. I tried not to flinch as I saw him use his teeth to tear open a package with a new syringe. It was awkward just watching him take the vial of cloudy fluid and stab the needle through it. He had to pull the plunger back with his teeth and then tap it against the leg of the chair to make sure no bubbles had accumulated. It seemed odd that he would make such an effort to ensure it was done right, but I didn't panic until Krycek held the syringe in his mouth as he took out a length of rubber hose and snapped it over my upper arm. It was too tight; it burned where the rubber pulled at my skin.

I stared at my body's betrayal as the vein stood up, thick, blue, and swollen. Krycek patted it hard twice with his long fingers and then caressed the skin with the tip of the needle. "Make a fist, it will be easier for you," he said.

"Tell me, how often do you and black-lung over there play doctor?" I snarled and tried not to wince as Krycek positioned the syringe against my vein.

"Often enough for me to get very good at it," Krycek said blankly. "I've been told this is most unpleasant. It's almost like your blood tries to reverse itself in your body." The needle contained more than five cc's of the cloudy fluid. "That's enough to make you very uncomfortable for a very long time. Are you sure you don't want to cooperate?"

"Fuck yourself," I said. I calmed my breathing and looked straight ahead at the smoker. The old man looked indulgently on, as if Krycek was a favourite pupil of his. He still held Krycek's jacket, and I watched as he slowly stroked the leather.

I almost didn't hear the soft whizzing sound. Krycek covered it up with a cough and angled his body so the smoker couldn't see what he was doing. He pushed the plunger down so that less than two cc's remained in the syringe. He then stabbed me, injected the shit, and pulled off the rubber hose.

The pain was immediate. My hands cramped into fists, and my teeth ground against each other until I thought they'd break under the pressure. Within seconds the pain invaded every part of my body, from under my fingernails to intense shards of pain running down my legs. I hadn't breathed since Krycek stuck me, and when I finally managed to suck in air through jaws that wouldn't open, my lungs felt like they were crushed between rocks.

And that was a mild dose.

But I had been through worse. That part of me that kept me aware of Krycek going back to his little bag and the smoker now rubbing Krycek's jacket over his thighs helped me see above the pain.

Gradually the agony died down. I became aware of my ragged breathing first and the sweat that covered me, and then a multitude of small complaints found me. I had dug my nails in hard enough to bleed, and the salt of my sweat aggravated the small wounds. My bladder was still full; I was surprised I still had control over it. Residual waves of pain still ran down my spine. My lips were cracked and bleeding.

Krycek had another vial out. I closed my eyes and hoped for just a straight beating. But that wasn't going to happen. It was far easier to withdraw from the blows than ignore what was forced inside my body.

The next hours were filled with hurt and pricks and hot and cold, headaches and vomiting...I lost control of my bladder sometime during the night, but the relief of it outweighed the humiliation

I woke to the sound of the restraints being ripped off. My head jerked back for a second and then fell forward again. I couldn't open my eyes; they were too heavy. I could smell myself from where I sat, but didn't have the energy to be sick again. The hands...hands? It wasn't Krycek. The hands yanked off my belt and with the same impatience undid my ankle straps. I sank forward, curling over myself, and grunted as I was flipped onto my knees over the chair.

It was just a bad dream, I decided. Yet one more drug-induced assault on my body. I was too cold for it to be real. I wanted it over so I could go back to sleep. At least in my dreams the pain that found me could be ignored.

The man yanked down my slacks, and my stomach dropped. This wasn't a dream. I tried bucking, but he cuffed my head hard enough to slam it against the arm of the chair. More pain on top of everything else. I stopped fighting long enough for my nausea to calm down, and my attacker mistook it for acquiescence. "That's right...hold still," the man grunted in my ear. It was the thug with dandruff, the man who had grabbed my tie. I felt sick again and could hardly turn my head and wretch. Nothing dislodged but thin streaks of bile that burned their way up my throat. No amount of spitting could rid my mouth of the taste. Damn it. I choked again as the man's thick cock forced itself against my ass. I squeezed my muscles shut, but he grabbed the back of my head and slammed it against the seat. The headache flared behind my eyes, and I tried to shake off the hand holding me down.

He let me raise my head up three inches before slamming it down again. I swore, seeing the proverbial stars. "Relax, FBI man. This will go easier on you," the man growled.

I had no intentions of making it easier on either one of us. I clenched harder, then grunted as two of his fingers forced themselves inside me. The harder I shut myself off, the more strength he used. A third finger pushed itself dryly into my body, and I stopped fighting just in case the bastard had designs to put his entire fist inside me.

The moment he felt me relax, he withdrew and replaced his fingers with his cock. His hands clamped down on my hips and yanked me back into a better position to be fucked. I closed my eyes, trying to recapture the sensation of being asleep to make this all go away, but then he forced himself inside me, and I had no barriers left to protect me from the pain.

I don't know what hurt more, the ripping, or the friction.

I grunted into my forearm, trying to choke back the screams that wanted out. Christ, this was worse than anything Krycek had injected inside me. At that moment I would have done anything, anything to make it stop. To make the pain go away. I tried to say the words, but I couldn't find them; my brain had shut down.

I heard the gun go off twice in the soundproofed room. The noise was deafening. The body fell against me, pinning me closer to the chair for a long moment. I couldn't scream. I couldn't breathe. I could only kneel while the man's blood poured over me. The body slowly slipped down to the floor.

Krycek's hand clamped down over my neck. "Hold on," he said. He left me for a long minute, and then the first of the cold water hit me. I didn't complain as the water washed away the blood and urine and the rest of the body fluids I didn't want to think about. I just held onto the chair with both clenched fists and forced myself to breathe.

"It's over," Krycek said and left me again.

I was alone in that room for another indeterminate length of time. I could have looked at my watch, but the thought never occurred to me. I listened to the sound of water dripping off me and tried not to touch the stream of blood that ran from the body behind me to the storm drain. It had stopped bleeding, and the blood had lightened to crimson as the water diluted it.

Krycek returned with a thick towel. They hadn't used softener, and the towel was mildly abrasive against my skin. Krycek stood over me for a while, and I jerked as I heard him pull his gun and cock it.

"Alex!" the smoker snapped from the door. "What the hell are you doing?"

"This bastard won't help you. Don't tell me you want him to live?" Krycek snarled back.

There was a long pause. "Take the body out and dispose of it," the smoker said. "After that, take care of the Assistant Director." Another long pause. "This never happened."

"Yes, sir," Krycek said, and then clicked the safety back on his gun. I relaxed, trying to get rid of the floating sensation in my arms and legs, then Krycek brought his gun over my head and I was falling again.

I woke in a bed that had the same smell as the towel from the night before. This room had a window in it, and the sun was just beginning to set. Had it only been 24 hours? It seemed like years since my body hadn't hurt. My head throbbed as I tried to open my eyes. The pain was so bad my vision blurred, but then I noticed I wasn't wearing my glasses. I tried to sit up, but the room started to spin as I raised my head. It was better just to keep still.

My leg twitched under the clean sheets, and I winced as the pain from my ass shot up my spine. It left me gasping. I tried to hug my body, but the motion almost made me sick again. I lay still, trying to gather enough strength to ignore the condition of my body so I could go back to sleep, but the lights turned on.

Krycek stood in the doorway. He moved to the bed, stirring a glass of orange drink. The only sound he made was the clinking of the spoon against the glass. He stood over me, put the glass down on the bedside table, and took a straw and a pillbox from his pocket. "This will help," he said, flipping open the box with his teeth. He shook out three different kinds of pills. I looked at him, unable to form the words to the question I wanted to ask, but Krycek nodded anyway. "Antibiotics, a painkiller, and something to help you sleep," he said. "The drink will make it easier for you." He put the pills on my tongue, and I could taste the bitterness. The drink was gritty. I drank a couple of swallows and drifted back to sleep.

I don't know how many days the pills robbed from me. When I was awake, or at least when I dreamt I was awake, my head and my anus throbbed almost simultaneously through a very dark curtain of drugged haze. I began to crave the taste of the bitter pills on my tongue and would lie in sweat the last hour before Krycek returned with the next dose. Gradually, the pill visits became farther apart, until I understood that the pain had tapered off to the point where I could start to handle it myself.

I woke to the sound of the door opening. Krycek came in, carrying a tray of food. I pushed up to my elbows, and Krycek looked momentarily surprised to see me up. He didn't say anything as he put down the tray of food. No pillbox this time, I noticed, just a single antibiotic. It was just simple broth, but for the first time, I was actually hungry. My bladder was full again, but I didn't say anything.

Krycek put the tray on the bedside table and reached under the bed. He took out a bedpan and put it down next to me. "Do you want help?" he asked, totally without emotion.

"Why are you doing this?" It helped that I was staring at the ceiling and not at him.

"Just following my orders," Krycek said. "Do you need help?"

"Cut the crap, Krycek. Why didn't you follow your orders in that room? Why did you spare me?" I demanded. My voice sounded much stronger than I felt inside. I almost didn't want to hear the truth. Krycek had spared me a great deal of pain, and I didn't want to feel indebted to him. I lay back down, unable to keep up the pretence of strength any longer. I took three deep breaths and turned to look at him.

"I didn't do it for you. I would have filled your veins with enough poison to kill a rhino and then jerked off in your face as you died, Skinner. Don't fool yourself," Krycek said, keeping his voice soft. It was like he was talking to an invalid. It came as a shock to remember that he was.

"Then why?" I asked. Krycek's face was unreadable. He looked at me without seeing me, drumming his hand on the bedpan. "Why did you kill..." I paused.

I didn't even know his name.

"You're reading too much into that. I never did like him. Do you want help?" he asked for the third time.

I nodded, refusing to feel ashamed. He had done much more for me, and I was exhausted.

Krycek unfolded the blankets in a businesslike fashion and picked up my penis to aim it into the pan. "Go," he said.

It took a lot of concentration, but I finally managed. Krycek wiped me off, pulled the blankets back up, and left with the bedpan. I heard a toilet flush somewhere in the house, and Krycek returned. "Eat."

I picked up the spoon, but my hand was shaking too hard. Krycek watched me for a second and then took it from me. "Here," he said. He spoon-fed me with a care I didn't know he had.

After he left I discovered that despite what was left of my headache, I actually felt tired, and I drifted off to sleep again.

I felt him over me. I felt his fingers moving inside me, tearing me open. I could feel his breath against the back of my neck. Shaking me...

Shaking me? I woke up, ready to attack, but it was only Krycek standing by my bed. "It was just a dream," he said. My window was dark; I must have been asleep for hours. I shrugged off the layers and layers of nightmare enough to realize I wasn't back in that room.

I hadn't thought it affected me that badly. In Vietnam, I had experienced much worse than just a simple rape, but I couldn't relax enough to calm my breathing. Krycek moved a kitchen chair into my room and sat up with me, kicking me awake when I got too restless. Surprisingly enough, it was comforting. When I woke up, his advice to me was simple. "Hate him for doing that to you," he said quietly in the night. "Don't hate yourself for taking it."

After at least a week of doing nothing but sleeping, I couldn't sleep anymore. I opened my eyes in the darkness and enough light came from the half-moon outside the window for me to see that Krycek was sleeping, his body folded into a shape that made my back ache just to look at it. I moved my legs experimentally, and Krycek jumped awake. We stared at each other, neither trusting the other, and Krycek rubbed his face with his hand. "What do you want?" he asked, voice thick with exhaustion.

"The bathroom," I said.

He went to reach under the bed again, but I stopped him. "I want to go to the bathroom," I said.

Krycek looked at me and slowly nodded, getting out of his chair. He stretched like a cat , lengthening his entire body, one muscle group at a time, and unlocked my door. "Come on, then."

I sat up and swung my legs to the floor. The room spun once around itself lazily, then righted. I stood up slowly and waited for the dizziness to pass before trying to take a step. It felt as though the floor might open up before me and let me tumble through at any moment, but taking very small steps let me handle the distance between the bed and the door. Krycek didn't rush me. "What is this place?" I asked once we were in the hall. I passed the reinforced door without looking at it, and the last bedroom on the right was dark.

"Call it our version of a safe house. It amuses the smoker to keep me here with you." That almost sounded bitter. I looked at him, but he wasn't looking at me. I wanted to ask a dozen questions, but kept my mouth shut. "Bathroom's in there," he said, motioning toward the dark room. "Call me if you need any help."

"You didn't answer me. Why are you doing this?" I finally asked, hesitating with my hand on the light switch.

"That's right, I didn't," Krycek said. "I haven't got all night, Skinner." He leaned against the wall and hugged his good arm over his chest. I turned the light on and closed the door behind me.

Being on an all-liquid diet helped, but the pain still left me sweating and nauseous. I took as much time as I thought I could before washing my hands and opening the door again.

Out in the hall again I stopped in front of the reinforced door. "Open this," I said.

Krycek was about to shake his head, but I stared at him until he took the keys from his pocket. The door swung open, and he reached in to turn on the light before stepping out of my way.

I stepped into the room, forcing myself to ignore the fear that Krycek was going to slam the door shut and lock it behind me. I don't know what I was expecting. The blood to still be there, for one. Mine and his. I stepped closer to the metal chair and touched it with my fingers.

"Reliving it doesn't help," Krycek said from the door.

"Is that personal experience talking?" I snapped, unable to control my anger. I had felt like such a victim in this room. This was the room I dreamt of when I was too stoned to remember. I could still feel the cold concrete against my knees as that man forced me down and...

"As a matter of fact, it is," Krycek said. "It happened to you, Skinner. It sucks, but it did. You're the only person who can let it go. He's dead. There is nothing to forgive, nothing to forget."

"You made it happen," I said, digging my nails into my skin.

"I had nothing to do with the rape. It wasn't sanctioned, it wasn't condoned."

"It went against your orders," I said, letting the sarcasm drip off my tongue. "Is there anything you do without consulting your precious orders?"

"You mean besides saving your ass? No. It's much safer that way," Krycek said. "You should be in bed."

I turned around. There was nothing in that room that helped. "What was his name?" I finally asked.

"Skinner-" Krycek began.

"What was his fucking name?" I demanded.

"Young. John Young," Krycek answered finally. "A thoroughly unpleasant fellow. I'm glad he's dead. You should be, too."

John Young. I looked at the spot where he died, then followed the trail of invisible blood from where he'd lain to the drain. I was glad he was dead, as well.

Krycek stayed awake with me that night. I couldn't close my eyes without feeling hands close down over my hips. I was angry that I wasn't coping better. It made me feel even weaker and even more vulnerable, which made me feel worse. Finally I dozed off, too exhausted to keep the sleep away.

Two more days passed like that. I closed my eyes, and the dreams snatched me up, but I couldn't fight the exhaustion. Krycek woke up in the middle of each of the nightmares, and I was beginning to feel irritable over the interrupted sleep.

I woke up the third day, and Krycek was gone. His chair was against the wall, and I could smell more soup cooking from the kitchen. I was sick of broth, and as I rolled over to stare at the wall, I found my body wasn't in agony. It still hurt, but it was at the back of my mind, more of an afterthought than actual pain. I stood up and moved to the door. Enough of this.

Opening the door while holding the tray was always awkward for Krycek. I took advantage of that. He came in, concentrating on what he held, and realized a moment too late that I wasn't in the bed. By that time I had already grabbed his bad arm, yanked him around and knocked him to the floor. It felt great to be able to lash out at someone. I kicked him, hard enough to really hurt him, but he curled up into a ball so I could only kick at his shins. Not that it stopped me. I realized that while I was hurting Krycek, I was hoping that a rotting corpse would feel it.

I drew back one final time, but Krycek moved again. He sat up, drawing his knees up to continue to protect him even though he had his Sig pointed right at me. "Feeling better?" he demanded.

I stepped back and slowly put my hands up. Krycek pushed to his feet, painfully, and motioned toward the bed with his gun. I moved to it,

shoulders tense. I honestly expected a bullet for what I had just done.

Krycek gave me the antibiotic. The glass of juice had fallen against the side of the tray, and he passed it to me, as well. There was only a couple mouthfuls left, but it was enough to take the pill. The soup was gone, the bowl overturned in the middle of the floor. I felt docile and sleepy after the energy I had just burned, and if Krycek hadn't left again, I was sure I would have thanked him.

Two weeks after the smoker had showed up at my door, I felt better. My face had finally healed, and only a small lump remained in my lip, which was getting smaller by the day. The dreams had stopped bothering me. Krycek was right. I stopped blaming myself for letting it happen. The headache went away completely, and I finally could eat solid food without throwing it up again. I asked Krycek again what he planned to do with me, but I got another of his noncommittal answers. He hardly spoke to me after the beating I gave him, but continued to attend to my needs like a nurse.

I woke up to cries in the night. Leather on skin, muffled screams, grunts of pain and of something besides pain. I froze in my bed; the sounds continued for half an hour before they stopped. I lay back down, not wanting to know what had happened.

Footsteps down the hall. I watched as the shadow moved under the crack of the door, and then my door handle slowly turned. The smoker was shadowed by the hall light, only the ruddy red glow from his cigarette revealing his identity. I looked at him, refusing to feel afraid. "It won't work," I said.

"What won't?" the smoker asked, taking another drag.

The red glow flared and gradually died down.

"You could kill me, but I'll never be yours."

The smoker only nodded and closed my door.

I hadn't heard the door lock. I waited until I was sure he was gone and put on the robe Krycek had provided. The hall light was still on, and Krycek's bedroom door was open and dark. I glanced to the kitchen where the door was, but I went up to Krycek's room first.

I turned on the light and saw him stretched out on the bed. This time it was he who turned away from me. The smoker had left him trussed up, arms and legs lashed to the corners of the bed. He wore a gag, but it hadn't been positioned correctly.

Red welts crossed his back in angry lines, and over his shoulder and down his neck I could see cigarette burns. His ass was opened and completely exposed, and there was a thin line of semen running down from his anus. The bruises I had put on him along his sides and back were still dark and tender-looking. I went to the bed and ran a hand down his back to feel how hot the marks were.

Krycek buried his head in the pillow. I unfastened his gag, and he spat it out beside him. "You want me, go ahead and have a piece. The doors are locked from the outside, and I don't have the key," he said, and returned to the pillow.

I untied the rope restraints. These didn't have sheepskin stuffing to make sure they wouldn't mark, and Krycek's wrist and ankles had been chewed bloody. The smoker had even tied up his prosthetic. I undid both his arms and then bent down to untie his legs. Krycek rolled off the bed and took a long moment to stand straight again.

We stared at each other. Krycek was so angry he was shaking; I probably could have taken him then, but couldn't see the point. Krycek fumbled awkwardly back into his jeans and long-sleeved shirt and left the room. I followed him down to the kitchen, where he pulled a bottle and two tumblers out of the cupboard. The whiskey was cheap, but I didn't care either.

"Why do you stay?" I asked, watching him unscrew the cap with one hand. He poured out two hefty servings and drank his down without stopping to breathe. It hurt my lungs and stomach just to watch. I took a more cautious sip and felt it burn all the way down.

"Because he'd hunt me down and kill me if I didn't," Krycek said and poured himself another glass.

I didn't believe him. Something in his eyes told me he was lying, but I didn't know why. "Whoa, slow down there," I said, trying to keep my voice light. Krycek glared at me and took another drink, but put the glass down half-full.

"What's it to you?" he snarled. He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing heavily, and then raised the glass again. "Life hurts, Skinner. Haven't you realized that by now? It doesn't matter if it's one guy over a chair, or in your bed, or they cut off your fucking arm. Life is pain."

"So why did you spare me?" I demanded. Krycek looked like the fallen angel he was. I don't know what I wanted to do. Half of me wanted to break the glass bottle sitting next to my elbow and slit his throat with the jagged pieces, and the rest of me...what? Wanted him? Not a chance. I looked away from his dilating green eyes and stared down into my glass.

"I already told you. It wasn't about you," Krycek snapped.

"Who, then?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"Who, then?" I demanded. I found myself using the tone of voice not even Mulder argued with. It had the same effect on Krycek, but the man poured himself another drink rather than answer me.

I slapped the glass out of his hands. It went flying, and Krycek stared at me like he'd never seen me before. "Who, then?" I growled. I raised my hand to strike him again, and he pulled away.

"Mulder, you sick fuck," he said. He bent down and picked his glass up and set it down with a shaking hand. "I should have killed you."

I sat back, slowly nodding my head. Krycek wanted Mulder. I should have seen that. "The smoker?" I asked.

"He's never going to get his hands on him," Krycek said.

So he'd let himself be fucked by that monster in order to keep track of the smoker's plans. I stared at this man, whom I still knew nothing about, and for the first time I respected Alex Krycek. I shook my head and drained my own glass. "Are you going to let me go?" I asked finally.

Krycek just looked at me and rose, taking the glass and the bottle back into the bedroom with him. I stayed out there for a long time before returning to my own room. What could I do to the smoker? Make ungrounded accusations about a man who didn't even exist? And Krycek kept me here until all the marks had left my body...my word against theirs? Against whose?

Krycek appeared at my door at nine the next morning, throwing down a bundle of clothes. "Get dressed," he ordered. He looked like hell, taut, starved and beaten, but there was a strength to his shoulders. He left me alone with my door open.

I dressed and went to the kitchen. Krycek made the coffee single-handedly. I sat down while he stood, waiting for the coffee to stop brewing. He didn't offer me any; he just filled up a travel mug, snapped on the lid, and unlocked the front door.

"I thought you said you didn't have a key?" I said, a step behind him. The morning's light was bright, and I had to blink.

"I lied," Krycek said, flatly. He unlocked the passenger door and walked around the other side. "Get in."

I slid into the cool interior. Krycek didn't speak to me as we drove. Occasionally, he would brace the wheel with his false arm and drink from his coffee, but it was done in silence. He drove directly to Mulder's apartment and parked on the side of the street. "Get out," he ordered me.

I put my hand on the door handle, but paused. "Krycek-" I began.

"Don't," Krycek said. "You don't owe me anything."

"How can you say that?"

Krycek looked at me. His green eyes were cold as he glanced up and down my body. "Whose idea do you think it was to go after you in the first place?" he asked and then glanced up to Mulder's window. "Hurt him again, and I'll kill you."

I opened the door and got out. Krycek barely gave me time to close the door before driving away. I gathered my jacket around my body, surprised that breathing in and out didn't hurt. Mulder's light was on, and I needed him. He would take me back, no questions asked, and I needed that, too.

The End


End file.
